


Guð eða Véurr

by sunshinewinchesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Violence, Fluff, Human Sacrifice, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pagan God Dean Winchester, Pagan Gods, Pagan Gods Verse, Possessive Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Worried Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:44:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5497511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinewinchesters/pseuds/sunshinewinchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Dean is away, Castiel is ambushed and offered as a sacrifice to a malicious pagan god.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guð eða Véurr

**Author's Note:**

> Title translation from Old Norse: God and Protector 
> 
> Based off of Diminuel's Pagan Gods Verse askblog -- 
> 
> http://pagangoddean.tumblr.com/
> 
> I absolutely adore her blog and am in love with this 'verse, so here this is! If you haven't already, go check it out, it's quite lovely!
> 
> Also, many liberties were taken with Old Norse, pagan gods, and the setting and time period of this fic. Everything is relative and I claim no accuracy on pagan rituals, gods, and late medieval customs. That said, I did do my best to keep everything as close to Diminuel's 'verse as possible!
> 
> Enjoy! <3

“If I head out and go on my rounds, how do I know you will be warm enough?” Dean questions, his arms tightening around Castiel’s naked form. Castiel hums appreciatively as Dean draws him closer, muscular arms around his waist a familiar, comforting weight that goes hand in hand with the heady feeling of bliss. Dean is clearly reluctant to leave, as he always is on these mornings, but Castiel can’t have him putting off his responsibilities as a god just to cuddle with him longer. As much as he wishes that they could stay like this, entangled in each other, cozy and sated in the quiet warmth and intimacy underneath the quilts piled atop them on his bed, he knows he can’t shirk his own responsibilities either. Once the sun has cleared the top of the mountains, Castiel will need to be on his way into town to purchase this month’s supply of food for the convent. In the quiet between their words, Castiel can hear the sound of rain heavily falling on stone, promising the conditions for travel are definitely less than ideal. The temptation to just stay in bed with his lover is more appealing as time inches closer and closer to the inevitable rising of the sun. The wind outside is a persistent howl, and paired with the thrum of rain, the thought of leaving his bed has him shivering. Dean frowns, his inky black eyes now showing with concern as the corners of his mouth pull down, doubts about his warmth being confirmed in Castiel’s involuntary shiver. He shifts to fold his arms beneath his chin, propping them up on Dean’s chest, their noses just inches apart.  
  
“I’ll be fine, Dean,” he promises with a smile, leaning in to press his lips against Dean’s pouty ones. 

“Mmm,” Dean hums into the kiss, reaching up to cradle Castiel’s face in his palm and kisses him more deeply with the stroke of his tongue. “Your bed won’t be nearly warm enough without me. That won’t do, especially with this weather,” the god remarks, eyes alight as he raises one hand and lazily gestures at the blankets on top of them. Before Castiel’s eyes, they suddenly turn to thick, luxurious furs laid over blankets and sheets of fleece. “Much better, but I still must stay anyways; you’re very prone to drops in body temperature,” He grins, sealing Castiel’s lips with his own again, as if still not done making his point. Castiel quickly gets lost in the kiss, in the feel of Dean’s hot, spit-slick lips opening to him, his tongue in turn tracing the curve of his bottom lip. Dean eagerly licks into Castiel’s mouth, movements gentle yet passionate, the hand cupping Castiel’s face brushing a thumb over his cheekbone. Dean pulls back too soon for his liking, and though a small smirk has now replaced his frown, there’s still some doubt and plenty of reluctance in the bottle green of his pupils. “I won’t allow you to be cold, my beloved. Which is why we should stay here,” Dean continues to reason, and Castiel sighs lightheartedly at his lover’s stubbornness, unable to keep himself from planting a kiss at the hollow of Dean’s throat and smiling fondly against his chest. His resolve is wavering, and he’s about to make an agreement he’ll most likely regret once the sun has cleared the mountain tops, when loud knocking sounds from the door, startling him and causing Dean to tighten his grip reflexively. 

“Castiel! Morning prayers start soon, are you dressed?” The familiar, raspy voice of the abbot sends a flood of cold through him. He frowns, suddenly rushing to sit up now, realizing the time must be later than he thought. As he sits up Dean readjusts his arms around Castiel, making a low sound of protest in the back of his throat as he moves from Dean’s side.  
  
“I will be out shortly, thank you,” Castiel calls out, working to make his voice sound as clear and alert as possible. Both Dean and him wait for the sound of footsteps fading away before either of them say anything. “We must hurry,” Castiel murmurs, throwing the blankets off of himself and all onto Dean as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, now in a hurry to get dressed. Dean sighs dramatically, sitting up and watching him grab the long-sleeve blue tunic and white pants he plans to wear. The god interlaces his fingers behind his head and leans back against the headboard, completely at ease, impervious to Castiel’s frantic search for his cloak as he simultaneously struggles to pull the tunic over his head.  
  
“Relax, my adored. You have plenty of time,” Dean reassures him, making no move to get out of bed and put his own clothes back on.  
  
“Have you seen my cloak?” Castiel asks, dropping onto his knees and peering underneath the bed for it, checking every place he can think of. Not finding it there, Castiel goes back to his wardrobe and does another scan through, checking to make sure he didn’t accidentally glance over it the first time. When he turns around, Dean is standing there, already fully dressed in his own tunic and pants, boots on his feet and coat around his shoulders. He holds out the cloak in question, Castiel’s favorite, with its dark brown material that comes down to his knees and leaves the front mostly open. It’s nothing like Dean’s coat, which is without a doubt the most comfortable and warm article of clothing he’s ever worn, but it does hold a certain familiar charm to it, having served him well over the years. “Thank you,” Castiel breathes gratefully, Dean placing it around his shoulders and fastening it at Castiel’s throat from behind.

Dean spins Castiel around to face him after he finishes, drawing him flush against his body. In one fluid motion he tips Castiel’s chin up and kisses him sweetly, chaste and quick. “Enjoy your day, love of mine. I will see you soon. Remember to stay warm.” Dean gives him a squeeze, running his fingers through the sleep-induced mess of Castiel’s hair to flatten the wild disarray. He smiles thankfully, a blush rising in his cheeks as Dean meets his gaze, his eyes affectionate and adoring.  
  
“Good bye, Dean.” Castiel untangles his fingers from Dean’s coat and steps back, chest aching as it always does when they must part. Dean disappears without a sound, and Castiel sighs, slipping his feet into his black boots and drawing the hood of his cloak up over his head. He turns to make up his bed but Dean must have already done so, seeing as the sheets and blankets are perfectly stretched over the mattress, the furs draped artfully over the top and the pillows arranged neatly at the headboard. It’s a good thing no one comes to visit him in here; anyone else who were to see his bed would wonder where Castiel got such luxurious, expensive fittings, since the convent does not provide anything like this in the least.  
Dean is always leaving Castiel gifts that would cost a fortune if he were to purchase them himself, and even at that, Dean’s gifts are always superior in quality to that of whatever would be available for him to buy. Castiel has to chuckle to himself when he realizes he is already daydreaming about the god, shaking his head and retrieving his key to lock the door behind him as he exits. The rain has stopped, at least for a moment, and he wonders if Dean had any role in it. He wouldn’t be surprised -- Dean takes his health very seriously, always treating Castiel as if he is fragile and could be harmed in ways the god probably never had to consider before they met. Though the worry makes Castiel feel loved and cared for, he’s made sure to tell his lover over and over again that he isn’t that delicate. Yet Dean still does things like manipulate the weather just to make sure he doesn’t get sick. Even though that seems at least a little excessive, Castiel remembers Dean is immortal, after all; to him, human bodies must seem very breakable and prone to illness. 

Castiel’s morning routines pass slowly and uneventfully, from his breakfast of oatmeal to the morning prayer service he attends at the chapel. After the service ends, he collects the money for this month’s groceries, storing it in the bag he wears on his back, the thick strap of which crosses his chest and keeps it securely in place. Before the abbot who had called to him this morning prompts him to continue with his duties and head to the market, Castiel heads to the edge of the clearing and takes the forest path he knows will lead him into town. Since he’s walked it several times on his other treks to the market, he’s confident he now knows the way and no longer needs a guide to travel with him. Though he liked the company, he has no problem with making the brief journey by himself. It gives him time to reflect on his thoughts and to enjoy the peace and quiet of nature, admiring the beauty of God’s creation. Castiel hums quietly to himself, listening to the chirp of birds flitting through the trees, the snap of twigs underfoot, the wind rustling through the leaves, all beautiful sounds that he wishes he got to hear more often. Everything is damp from the rain, verdant green flora dripping with rainwater, mud sticking to the soles of his boots as he heads deeper into the forest. Through the thick tree top canopy overhead, Castiel can make out the hazy gray sky, sunlight blocked out by swollen, dark clouds ready to release their load at any minute. Hopefully it doesn’t start pouring until after Castiel has returned; though he enjoys his time walking through the forest, being caught in a downpour would make it considerably less pleasant. 

He estimates he’s halfway there fifteen or so minutes later, when the moss shrouding the ancient tree trunks begins to cover them more sparsely. It’s markers like these that help indicate where he is and help him know that he hasn’t wandered away from the right path or taken a wrong turn. It’s somewhere around this time that he begins to feel uneasy, a distinctly ominous sensation crawling down his spine. He’s never felt like this in the forest before, never experienced the creeping suspicion that he’s being watched, which is why he tries to shake it off, certain that it must just be his imagination. He blames it on the rain clouds obscuring the sunlight that usually filters down through the trees and lights his path; generally every time that he’s come out here, it’s always been lighter, no abundance of shadows in which things could lurk. Castiel sighs, rolling his eyes at himself and shaking out his shoulders. He’s got to be approaching the end of the trail in just fifteen more minutes or so now. There is no cause for alarm just because his mind is playing tricks on him. There’s never been any reason to feel unsettled and wary in this forest. The uneasy sensation of foreboding must be completely irrational, he is sure of it. These woods have always been safe, no thieves hiding where the light doesn’t reach, lying in wait to ambush any unsuspecting person who passes through, and that Castiel is sure of. He just needs to ignore his nerves and continue on his way. He attempts to busy himself by watching for small animals scavenging between the roots of trees for nuts or seeds, and it’s a fairly decent distraction until the feeling intensifies, his heart speeding up in his chest and a slow, unsettling shiver sliding through him. 

Castiel stops, a chill of dread pairing with the growing eerie sensation of eyes following his every move. The hairs at the back of his neck prickle and his heart hammers in his chest while he turns around in a slow circle, squinting in a futile attempt to peer into the shadows of the forest on either side of him in search of whatever the danger must be. His anxiety ratchets up a few levels when he can’t see anything hiding, can’t make out anyone or anything prowling around and watching him. A cold sweat is starting to dew on his skin and he contemplates sprinting down the rest of the path, the urge to flee now demanding at the front of his mind. The forest has gone silent, another indicator that something is amiss, and Castiel swallows hard, his throat feeling suddenly dry. He’s never had reason to carry a sword with him before, but now, he’s wishing he had taken the abbot’s advice and carried one in a scabbard at his hip on these journeys, just like his guide had when accompanying him. Even if he had thought to bring one, he doesn’t know how to fight well with it, and surely would only injure himself in any attempt to utilize it against a potential opponent. With the fight option clearly out of the way, Castiel knows he must flee. The longer he stares into the darkness of the trees, the tenser he becomes and the more his feet itch to run, tension mounting with each passing second he looks for something he can’t see. This can’t simply be his imagination, not anymore. There is some sort of danger out there, and Castiel isn’t foolish enough to remain standing here, waiting for it to come and find him. On that thought, Castiel spins on his heels and walks quickly along the trail, his breathing growing harsher and faster as his heart hammers away at his ribs. His skin feels tight and he holds his back ramrod straight in anticipation of an attack. He just wants to get to the market, where he will be surrounded by people and far away from the prying, malicious eyes he feels on him now.

He could run, but the chances of him slipping and falling in the mud are too high, so he doesn’t risk it. He does walk as fast as he can, resisting the urge to look back over his shoulder. The silence is broken suddenly when a voice calls out from behind him, “Sir? Could you help me, please? I am in great need of direction.” Castiel jumps, shouting in surprise and coming to an abrupt halt, heart jumping into his throat and his blood running cold. He whips around to face the source of the voice, and feels a surge of relief upon seeing an ordinary man standing in the middle of the path, dressed in a cloak and boots much like his own, unarmed and completely unthreatening. “I apologize for startling you, but I was wondering if you could help me find my way back to town. I seem to have taken a wrong turn somewhere, and I believe I’m lost,” the man offers him a friendly smile and Castiel returns it, instantly warming up. The vice that felt like it was constricting around his chest doesn’t loosen, oddly enough, but he ignores it. His imagination is simply overactive, finding danger in nothing at all.  
  
“I’m on my way into town, you can just come with me,” Castiel offers, walking over to join the man. He’s around his age, with brown eyes to match the brown hair peeking out from beneath the hood of his cloak. He looks vaguely familiar, but not from the convent, which is the most likely place he’d recognize anyone from.  
  
“That would be very kind of you, thank you,” the man replies, and they start back on the path. Castiel’s stomach is churning uncomfortably inside him, and the back of his mind still shouts for him to run, but he does his best to pay it no mind.  
  
“You look familiar, sir. Where do I know you from?” Cas asks, shouldering his bag as he leads the way. He can’t put his finger on it, but he does recognize him from somewhere, he is certain of that.

There’s a brief pause in which Castiel notes the forest is still dead silent, the wind not even blowing through the leaves. “I believe I’ve seen you at the rune stones, on occasion. You visit Dean, the god of homes and families?” the man suggests, and Castiel nods, smiling.  
  
“Yes, I do visit his rune stones regularly. Do you as well?” He asks, stepping over a fallen tree blocking the path and waiting for the man to catch up as he clears it himself.  
  
“I don’t pay my respects to Dean’s stones, but rather another god’s.” Castiel looks over at that, curious. He’s about to ask which god, but the man continues speaking. “What’s your name?”  
  
“Castiel,” he replies, reaching out a hand to shake the man’s. “And yours?” They come to a stop as they grasp hands. He meets the man’s eyes, and recognition paired with something that makes Castiel’s stomach fall to his heels registers in his darkening gaze.  
  
“Lord Castiel...Dean’s betrothed? So I have found the right man.” The man chuckles to himself as he releases Castiel’s hand, the sound as sinister as the wicked smile shaping his lips. The danger warning that had been gnawing at him for all this time flares to full power, demanding Castiel’s attention, the urge to flee spiking as his heart begins to pound out an uneven rhythm. His stomach feels filled with rocks, and the sudden certain understanding that _this man_ is the danger his instincts and intuition were warning him of all this time is suddenly dizzyingly obvious.  
  
“What do you mean? How do you know that?” Castiel demands, taking a stagger step backwards as the sickening urge to run intensifies. He needs to escape, needs to get away from this man, who is now taking a step forward for each one he takes back. Malevolence radiates off of him plain as day now that he’s stopped attempting to disguise it. No one should know of him and Dean, and the fact that this man clearly has sought him out and has lied to get Castiel to trust him, if just long enough to do what he plans….Castiel needs to get away from him, _now_.

“All in due time, Castiel,” the man replies, reaching into his boot and drawing out a dagger with a cruel, curved blade. Castiel gasps, turning on his heels, and sprints as fast and hard as he can in the opposite direction, praying that the mud doesn’t send his feet slipping out from under him. Terror engulfs him as he hears sounds of pursuit; the man has much longer legs and must be more fit than him, most likely a hunter who spends his days constantly moving and getting stronger as opposed to Castiel’s sedentary studying of God’s word. He has little hope of outrunning someone who has the agility and skill that comes with chasing after animals and killing them on a daily basis, but he surely is going to try. A million questions are rapidly firing in his mind, but they’re all overshadowed by the fear he feels coursing thickly through his veins, paired with the now undeniable need to flee. That persistent feeling has finally come to a head since the source of the danger has been identified, Castiel confirming that it wasn’t just a product of his imagination. If only he had paid it more mind earlier, maybe he would’ve gotten away in time. The man is closing in on him and he can’t run fast enough, the acute awareness of the man’s breath rasping at the back of his neck as he zones in on him the last thing he registers before something heavy and blunt bashes into the back of his head. The force of it sends his knees buckling, body dropping to the forest floor like a lead weight. Lights go off behind his eyes as the pain tears through his skull, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth following as he collapses into the mud like a marionette with its strings cut. Darkness is a sudden and overpowering force that seizes his consciousness without even giving him a chance to fight it, and then there is nothing at all.

***

Castiel is drawn towards consciousness by the erratic throbbing of his head in time with his heartbeat, the labored thump of his pulse sending a deep, reverberating pain rippling out like waves through his skull from a point at the back of his head. His senses are all one big overwhelming blur of pain and discomfort, accompanied by a demanding, growing sense that something is wrong, something is very wrong and he needs to _wake up_. His senses separate and pull into focus all at once, jarring him into full consciousness. He opens his eyes with a pained, frantic gasp, willing his surroundings to stop spiraling in and out of focus disorientingly and making his stomach clench with nausea. He grits his teeth, trying to swallow back the drying blood in his parched mouth so he can breathe better while the world still moves in dizzying, impossible ways. It takes him a minute to realize he’s staring up at a nearly dark evening sky, criss-crossed by the leafy branches of trees, and only when the world stops spinning like it’s going to throw him off the face of the earth does he feel stable enough to take inventory of what condition he’s in. 

Castiel is slumped at the base of a tree, his arms pulled behind him and around the trunk, bound to it by a thick, rough length of rope securing his wrists. He’s also completely naked, divested of all of his clothing, which explains why he is so freezing cold, skin wet with rain and smeared with mud. His ankles are bound with more rope, and as his blurry vision swims into tentative focus, he can make out that a leafy, dark green herb interspersed with tiny white flowers is wrapped around his ankles as well, a plethora of it coiled thickly around his hips and thankfully covering his groin. Upon discovering he’s tied up with rope, panic punches his breath from his chest and he struggles to remain calm and collected. Panicking won’t help him, and he needs all the help he can get right now. He shifts against his bonds, causing the tree bark to rub the skin on his shoulder blades raw and send a bright, jagged bolt of pain lancing through his head when it bumps against the trunk. Castiel groans, clenching his jaw to keep from making any other noises. Turning his pounding head to the side rustles more of the leafy herb that is wound around his neck and placed in a crown around his bloodied head. It smells cloyingly sweet, its overpowering potency making the nausea twist at his already weak stomach. The taste of blood on the back of his tongue isn’t helping, and he closes his eyes tight and tries to take deep breaths through his mouth to ward off the urge to vomit. He needs to focus through the discomfort and pain and figure out what’s going on so he can get himself out of here. 

Everything starts to click into place as he attempts to get his wrists loose, unsuccessfully of course. He’s tied up, naked, and covered in an herb that he now has the presence of mind to identify as meadowsweet. It’s the meadowsweet that gives him a sickening understanding of what is going on: Castiel is being sacrificed to a god. Meadowsweet is used to mark victims for pagan gods, used often in sacrificial rituals. He had learned as much in his studies, and now here he is, lying wounded and bound to a tree in the mud, meadowsweet adorning his body in clear offering. Castiel shivers violently as the cold seeps into his bones, the squelch of mud against his bare skin paired with the scrape of bark over his shoulder blades as he attempts to sit up. The movement causes the pain in his head to flare up again again, leaving his ears ringing and a fresh trickle of blood oozing from his scalp. The sun has almost set and it’s too dark to see more than a little ways in front of him. How long has he been out here like this? Where is the man who did this to him, and how did he know Castiel is Dean’s betrothed? Most importantly, how does that connect to him being offered up in sacrifice to some unknown god right now? The only man who can answer these questions is nowhere in sight, and Castiel can’t decide if this is a good thing or a bad thing. From his readings, he knows that a ritual must always accompany a human sacrifice, and as long as the man isn’t here, he can’t complete the sacrifice with the ritual. That means Castiel still has a chance of escaping and getting out of this forest alive, no matter how small it may be.

Castiel becomes increasingly more aware of just how miniscule that chance is when he continues to struggle against his bonds. The ropes are tied so tightly, cutting into his flesh and keeping him pinned to the tree, that his struggling is futile at best, only succeeding in chafing his raw skin against the bark and ropes. He’s too weak to try and pull himself free, his head wound and cold-numbed limbs guaranteeing as much. His heart starts to accelerate as he realizes that the man could come back from wherever he is at any moment, and as soon as he does, Castiel is as good as dead. He has a very small window of time -- how small he doesn’t know -- to try and figure a way out of this that doesn’t require physical exertion, and it is shrinking with each passing second. It seems this thought has only just occurred to him when his eyes pick up a bright, flickering orange light weaving through the trees towards him. Fear bubbles up inside his chest, constricting his airways, desperately trying to remain calm when he really wants to panic and thrash at the ropes constricting him. All at once, it becomes clear that Castiel can’t get himself out of this. He needs help, and he needs it _now_. As the light grows closer, he stops struggling and instead works to sit up as much as he can, wincing as the bark drags over his bare flesh and a wave of vertigo nearly makes him black out. It becomes evident that it is the man from earlier, the one with the brown eyes who had followed him and attacked him, presumably the one who intends to sacrifice him. Castiel might not be able to escape through struggling, but he can always do his best to reason with his captor. 

The man looks solemn as he approaches, the light proving to be a tree branch fashioned into a torch, the end of it aflame. He doesn’t acknowledge Castiel, though he does glance over and see that he is awake. Instead, he crouches in front of him, the light illuminating a pile of tree branches that he lowers the torch to, catching them on fire. The fire grows quickly as he throws more wood onto it until the blaze is big enough to illuminate the clearing, the heat of the fire reaching Castiel’s bound feet. “Who are you?” Castiel asks, his voice coming out raspy and quiet from the lack of moisture in his throat. The man stabs the torch into the ground, not needing it anymore now that the fire provides a sufficient amount of light, and comes over to stand before Castiel, looking down at him disdainfully. He crosses his arms over his chest, assessing, and Castiel grits his teeth against the pain and discomfort, forcing himself to make eye contact and not reveal the fear eating away at him. He is terrified, terrified of this man and terrified of being sacrificed to a god that is without a doubt evil in nature, if such a god requires human sacrifices. Castiel realizes with a deep, visceral profoundness that he needs Dean, he needs Dean right now, not just to get him out of here, but because he is scared and Dean is the only one who can make him feel safe and not as horribly alone as he feels right now. _Dean_ , Castiel calls out in his head, hoping that Dean can hear his prayer even if it isn’t uttered aloud. _Dean, come quick. I need you._

“Who I am is not important, Castiel,” the man answers in a clipped tone, going back to the fire and crouching beside it to stoke the flames.  
  
“Why are you doing this? Why sacrifice me?” Castiel questions, working to keep his voice from shaking and betraying his fear. He can get through this, he will. The man rises back into a standing position, the light of the fire making his face look gaunt and demonic as he reaches into a basket he has brought with him and pulls out a fistful of another herb, this one a vine of some sort with spiky needles. He begins to chant in what Castiel recognizes as old Norse, the language of the gods in this area, and flings the herb onto the fire. The flames turn white and fan wider as he chants louder, each rushed syllable flowing into the next and sending a chill down Castiel’s spine he’s sure has nothing to do with the cold. The chant cuts off abruptly and the fire goes back to how it was before, putting a lump in his throat. The ritual has begun. There is a wicked gleam in those brown eyes as the man kneels next to him, removing the same dagger from earlier from his boot and smirking as his eyes widen at the sight of it. He presses the tip of the blade to the inside of Castiel’s forearm and starts back up his chant before he pivots his wrist and slices through skin. Castiel gasps in pain and clenches his jaw, chest rising and falling rapidly with each rasping breath he takes to steel himself. The ringing in his ears is becoming louder and he tries to jerk away from the blade digging into his flesh, but the bonds hold fast. The man’s voice rises to a crescendo and Castiel catches the word _nīth_ repeated several times, a word he recognizes as ‘envy’ from his studies in old Norse. 

“You’re sacrificing me to the god of envy, are you not!” Castiel gasps, understanding dawning upon him. Through the haze of pain in his mind, the man’s motives are starting to become clear. This outburst gets the man to stop his carving into Castiel’s arm, and he pulls the dagger back, the firelight gleaming off the blood-slick blade.  
  
“You are very clever, Castiel,” the man remarks, letting go of his arm in favor of grabbing the other. Blood is flowing steadily from the deep cut in his forearm and it burns so intensely it makes his eyes water, but he doesn’t make any noise to indicate his pain, instead gnashing his teeth and attempting to control his labored breathing. “Eindride, the god of envy, is a god far more almighty than Dean; you made a poor choice in who you serve,” the man sneers, positioning the point of the blade at the crease of Castiel’s elbow, holding his gaze. “To gain favor with my god, a human sacrifice must be made, but not just any human will do. It has to be a human belonging to another god, and if the human is more to his god than just another follower, you can imagine how much greater the sacrifice will be in the eyes of Eindride. When I learned of your existence and value to Dean, I realized that sacrificing you would gain Eindride’s ultimate favor. Another god’s lover will surely lead him to bestow me with blessings of fortune and power beyond what anyone has ever received before!” Castiel’s eyes widen as he follows the man’s train of thought, understanding the big picture. If Eindride envies Dean, specifically for having a human lover, then sacrificing that human lover would no doubt please him more than any other sacrifice ever could, which is why Castiel is currently having this discussion while tied to a tree and wrapped in meadowsweet. 

“It’s to no personal slight against you that I do this, Castiel. You just happen to be the one person I need for the sacrifice,” the man finishes, settling down and focusing his attention back to the dagger still pressed into the crease of Castiel’s elbow. Castiel swallows hard, desperately searching his brain for any possible thing he could say to stop this. Dean is a peaceful, gentle god who would never accept or ask for human sacrifices from those he watches over, which is why Castiel has never truly understood just how bloodthirsty some gods could be until now.  
  
“There is a better way, I promise you,” Castiel gasps as the blade begins to cut into his skin, the hot wetness of blood already welling from the gash. “There are gods who are loving and peaceful, who do not demand such despicable sacrifices of their believers in exchange for their blessing. You do not need to kill me, you do not need to feed their bloodlust. There is a better way, please. Whatever power Eindride would give you for sacrificing me is not power you want.” Castiel declares, struggling to get the words out as the burning, sharp pain of the dagger carving a trail into his arm grows worse the deeper it goes. The man releases Castiel’s arm, pulling two shallow metal bowls from his basket and sliding them underneath each of Castiel’s forearms to collect the blood that is now flowing from the wounds at a startling rate. He is growing dizzy and faint from the blood loss, his racing heart pushing the substance through his veins and causing him to lose it faster than he would had he not been so desperately trying to get the man to spare him and realize the truths of the matter. The certainty and darkness in the man’s eyes tell Castiel he is too far gone to change, especially right now when he is so close to getting what he desires. 

“Power is power. I’ll soon be strong and wealthy and eternally have his favor. Why wouldn’t I desire such a thing? If you weren’t deluded by love, you too would see there are better gods to follow, ones who will bless you with things protective deities never would.” Castiel shakes his head, his heart heavy and burdened for this man. Despite the haze the blood loss has created in his brain, making everything disjointed and slowed, he isn’t too far gone to think this through. This man has been so manipulated, so blinded by his lust for power that nothing Castiel can say or do will be able to make him realize the truth of the matter. Still, he must try. If he is going to die, he’s going to do all he can to help this delusional man understand.  
  
“A truly strong god loves his followers and does not require human sacrifices of them to bless them. True power is not derived from slaying those whom other gods love, but in showing them kindness, in showing _everyone_ kindness….” Castiel trails off, his mind growing foggier and losing coherency as the blood loss finally takes its toll on him. He feels light and dizzy, his head spinning and his vision tunneling in and out of focus, the fire light too bright. His body feels unreal, like the freezing cold and pain is miles away, and he knows that all of his strength has been drained out with the blood still sluggishly trickling from his cuts, the rate at which it flows out slowing. The ringing in his ears turns fuzzy and his grasp on consciousness is becoming progressively more weak, to the point where just keeping his eyes open and refusing to surrender to the darkness tugging at his mind requires all of his focus and energy. He knows he doesn’t have long before he succumbs to it, as what’s happening becomes further and further away, less real. _I love you, Dean._ Castiel hopes the prayer reaches him as the man starts chanting again, his eyes involuntarily slipping shut. He’s fading further and further, but is brought to a sudden halt in his loss of consciousness when he hears a shockingly loud shout of surprise. 

Summoning his last remaining scraps of energy, Castiel opens his eyes into slits and strains to focus them enough to make out the scene before him, and the first thing that swims into focus is _Dean_. Castiel’s heart expands to fill his whole chest and a rush of warmth and hope spills through him, just at the sight of his lover becoming less blurry as he struggles to stay lucid. Dean is here, Dean must have heard his prayers, Dean is with him and everything now seems less terrifying than it was before. It takes a moment for Castiel’s mind to make sense of what is going on, to process that it’s the smooth expanse of Dean’s coat-clad back he’s staring at, fleecy hood of white fur resting against his broad shoulders. The god is crouching protectively in front of Castiel, hiding him from the man’s view and positioning his body defensively between them. In one hand Dean brandishes a massive golden sword with a long, razor-sharp flaming blade. Castiel has no doubt that he couldn’t even lift the sword on his own; this must be Dean’s god sword, the one with which he defends and protects those under his care with, that blazes with the fires of his power and embodies properties not of this world. It’s the single most lethal thing Castiel knows of, and for Dean to be holding it at the ready shocks him, the direness of the situation sinking through the layers of blood loss delirium shrouding his mind. 

Dean and the man both are yelling things that don’t make sense to Castiel’s ringing ears, but if he tries, he’s able to vaguely understand the message behind them. The man is charging Dean with his dagger, while Dean rises slowly to his feet, arms spread wide to shield Castiel. The reckless stupidity the man must possess in order to dare charge a god wielding a weapon strong enough to kill the immortal is surprising to him as he strains to focus his hearing and decipher what is being said. He can’t see Dean’s face, but the god’s whole body is vibrating with barely suppressed rage, the lines of muscle in his back taut and his posture furious and and formidable, but over all unwaveringly protective. He’s still sheltering Castiel even though it looks like he wants to meet the man head on and put his rarely used blade to work. His hearing gains clarity just in time for him to hear Dean growl out a chain of old Norse, and then the man is rocketing backwards through the air, back slamming so hard into a tree trunk that he’s surprised it doesn’t kill him. Dean keeps him pinned there, gasping and choking and clawing at his neck, one hand outstretched and clenched into a fist as he finishes the chant. The god lowers his sword before turning to face Castiel, his inky black eyes blazing with wrath, but as soon as they fall on him, they go soft with concern and worry. “Castiel,” Dean breathes, dropping onto his knees before him and touching the ropes around his ankles. All of the bonds restraining him fall away and dissolve into nothing, as does the meadowsweet, and Castiel is too weak to do anything but slump to the ground, body limp and beaten as a discarded rag doll’s. 

“Precious,” Dean chokes, a muscle in his jaw contracting with emotion as Dean gathers him in his arms, cradling him so tightly to his chest that the smaller man has trouble drawing in breath. Dean buries his face in Castiel’s blood matted hair, his hands brushing up and down his back, fingers searching for wounds with a feather-light touch. Castiel wants to say something, anything, but his throat is too clogged with emotion for him to get the words out. He’s completely overwhelmed with relief and love now that Dean is here, Dean is with him and everything will be alright. Castiel hides his face against Dean’s collarbone, inhaling the heady, calming scent of his lover and reveling purely in the fact that they are together again. Dean’s murmuring a litany of reassuring promises in his ear, too quickly for him to distinguish between them, although he understands the meaning behind them and wishes he were strong enough to cling as tightly to Dean as Dean is to him. If only he didn’t feel the darkness pulling at him more diligently, the feebleness of his body growing as he approaches imminent unconsciousness. By the anxious undertones in Dean’s voice, Castiel is sure the god must be fearful of his health, having found him in this condition. Castiel knows that just by how desperately he is holding him and checking over his injuries, taking careful inventory of each, that it must be immensely difficult to see his beloved like this. The god quickly slips out of his coat and wraps it around Castiel snuggly, blanketing his naked, bloodied form in the soft fleece, and gathers it closer around him. His eyes are tender as he cups Castiel’s face, thumb brushing the strands of hair plastered to his forehead out of the way so he can see his eyes. “I am here, treasure, I am here and I am never going to leave you.” The ringing in Castiel’s ears can’t obscure the constant stream of comforting words still pouring from Dean’s lips.

Castiel needs to remember how to move his tongue and speak, so he can reassure Dean that everything is going to be okay, that he is alive and not to fret, but he doesn’t get the chance. In a flash of blinding white light that illuminates the entire clearing, another god -- Eindride, Castiel is sure of it -- appears beside them, anger twisting his features. He’s taller than Dean but less muscular, his skin a dark crimson and his eyes entirely a lifeless gray. He is clothed in a black tunic and his dark hair hangs loose at his shoulders as he turns around to glare at the man still pinned in place to the tree, held fast by Dean’s powers and sputtering for breath. “You summoned me with a sacrifice, boy, but you hastened to complete it!” He roars, fists balling at his sides as he storms over to the man pinned against the tree. “Finish the ritual now, or perish for disturbing me!”  
  
“ _You."_ Dean growls, body now tense and trembling with rage at the sound of the other god’s voice. Dark green and black marks fan out around his eyes like a mask as the anger returns to them, formidable and fearsome. He sets Castiel down, still bundled up tightly in his coat and gives him an apologetic kiss on the forehead before standing up and turning to confront his enemy, the fire having fully returned to his eyes and the violent power returning to his posture. Eindride smirks at Dean, understanding coming into his angry eyes.  
  
“Ah, I see. You intended to sacrifice Dean’s betrothed to me. Very well, you may finish,” the god says, snapping his fingers. The man drops onto the ground, drawing in a deep breath, no longer restrained by Dean’s powers. “The sacrifice will be even more enjoyable with Dean himself here to watch. Well done.” Eindride grins sadistically at him, and Dean growls in response, low and threatening in the back of his throat as he backs up close to Castiel, allowing for less room between them, curving his body protectively in front of him and covering him with his arms. The flames of his sword flare with Dean’s powers, sending waves of heat washing over them. 

“Eindride. I am going to send every one of your shrines up in flames. I am going to peel away that revolting excuse for power from the very marrow of your bones and then use it to bleed you dry. You will only live long enough to suffer at my hand, and only when I feel like brutally bringing you to an end will you be allowed to perish, and not a moment before,” Dean hisses, venom dripping from each poison-laced word. Castiel shivers at the darkness in his lover’s voice, in the blatant promise. “I will ensure you live just long enough to beg that I have mercy on you, and if you dare _think_ about allowing that boy one step closer to my beloved, I will see to it that it begins now, and that it will _never_ come to end.” Eindride raises an eyebrow and Dean’s teeth snap together with an audible click. Malignance rings from every syllable. “You will burn for eternity.”  
  
“I would like to see you make good on your threat then, Dean, if you believe you are able to do so,” the god replies, voice level and calm. He nods at the man waiting for permission to approach Castiel, who is seeing everything before him through a tunnel, the edges of his vision swarming black dots.“Proceed, boy.” Dean snarls something in Old Norse, his voice thunderous, and flicks his wrist at the man, who crumples to the ground with the sickening crunch of bones breaking. Dean doesn’t give Eindride a chance to react; the god charges him, flaming sword held high, shouting promises of death. Dean is absolutely livid, shocking Castiel with the strength and lethal calculation behind each movement. His lover dodges Eindride’s counter attack -- a gesture of his hand that would most likely have had Dean collapsing like the man, if not for Dean’s vicious and unyielding strike forward. He lunges at Eindride, grasping the hilt of his sword with both hands, flames climbing up the blade hungrily as he swings it, and cleaves through Eindride’s neck with fatal accuracy. Before Eindride’s head can even fall from his shoulders, Dean is plunging the blade through his chest without sparing a second in between. Everything goes black for a minute, but Castiel claws his way back to semi-consciousness, eyes at half-mast as he attempts to see, desperate to know that Dean will come out of this fight okay. Dean plants one foot on the fallen god’s sternum, now that he is lying headless and on his back, and rips the blade out of his chest. A brilliant, blinding white light starts to flood out from the gaping wound and by the time Dean shouts for Castiel to close his eyes, Castiel is already dropping off into unconsciousness, the blood loss finally triumphing and dragging him under. 

***

Castiel wakes with a jolt, his body immediately jumping back into fight-or-flight mode. He gasps as he opens his eyes, heart pounding, and attempts to sit up, but two strong, familiar arms tighten around him, grounding him. “Cas? Beloved?” Dean’s deep voice questions in his ear, and all at once, the panic leaves Castiel’s body, allowing him to sink weakly back into his lover’s arms, all energy seeping out of him now that any threat of danger is long gone. “Speak to me, love of mine,” Dean murmurs anxiously, brushing his lips along Castiel’s cheek. It takes him a moment to understand his surroundings and process where he is; once the initial wave of vertigo passes and his eyes adjust to the relative darkness of the room, he realizes he’s in Dean’s fortress. Dean is cradling him to his body, one arm wound around his waist protectively while the other is cupping the back of his head, fingers scratching gently, comfortingly at his scalp. Dean is curled around him on the bed, as if still trying to shelter him from the world, and Castiel immediately relaxes, realizing he is safer than he could ever be anywhere else.  
  
“Dean,” he mumbles, burrowing closer to Dean’s warmth and burying his face in his lover’s neck, inhaling the rich, heady scent of him and absorbing the fact that he’s alive, he’s at home in Dean’s arms, in the safety of his fortress.  
“I’m right here, little one,” Dean replies, curving his palm to fit the shape of Castiel’s cheek. In the limited light, Castiel can just make out the jade green pools shining with concern and love amid the inky black. “I have you, you are safe.” Castiel sighs contentedly, snuggling closer and runs a thumb over Dean’s lips, which are pulled down in a worried frown. He doesn’t like it when Dean frowns; it looks all wrong on him. The god should be happy, his smile is so beautiful and radiant and Castiel wants to see it again.

Suddenly the previous events of the day come rushing back to Castiel, and worry ignites inside his own chest. Dean had been fighting a god, a very dangerous, malevolent god, and Castiel had passed out before he’d gotten to see if Dean had come out of the fight uninjured. “Dean! Are you okay? Did Eindride harm you? Is he dead?” Castiel asks frantically, attempting to sit up enough to see Dean properly. The movement is dizzying and the god hushes him, gently pulling him back down on top of his chest and runs a soothing hand over Castiel’s back, kissing his forehead.  
  
“It’s okay, I’m fine. Eindride was unable to injure me, and yes, I slaughtered him, a little too quickly for my liking.” Dean chuckles darkly. “As for the man who tried to sacrifice you to him, I had originally broken his neck for daring to harm what is mine, for having the audacity to disrobe my beloved and for _taking a blade to your flesh."_ Dean hisses in the darkness, his voice going flat, seething with barely masked rage. Castiel shivers at the murderous tone and swallows hard, which leads Dean to pull the mound of blankets closer around him. “Are you cold? I can manifest more blankets,” his voice is soft again, the protective caretaker in him winning out over the part that thirsts for vengeance. 

“I’m warm, but what do you mean ‘originally’?” Castiel frowns in the darkness. The man had infact tried to kill him to appease a god of envy, and for the selfish purpose of trying to gain power, but Castiel still wouldn’t wish death upon him. He was deluded by his lust for power, and the teachings of a malicious, evil god. No one should die for a cause like that, and Castiel wishes he had been able to convince him of the truth in time for a change of heart.  
  
“Originally, as in at first I killed him out of sheer rage and to protect you from him by eliminating the threat of his presence. But after I had dealt with Eindride and healed you, I took mercy on him and gave him his life back. I didn’t want to, though. I knew that you would have wanted him to live and change his ways; you always see the good in people, my love. I figured you would have wanted me to spare him if you had been conscious, so I did. I did, however, ensure that he would never do something like that again,” Dean trails off, lost in thought, and Castiel wonders if those marks fanning out from his eyes, the ones from back in the forest during the confrontation, have made their way back onto his face for the moment. Castiel is awed and humbled simultaneously, tipping his head back to fit his lips to Dean’s in gratitude and for lack of any words to express what he feels. He kisses him deeply, with a lingering, slow-burning passion, communicating exactly what that means to him through each movement.  
  
“Thank you, Dean. You’re right, thank you for sparing him. I’m sure you instilled in him a desire to learn the truth, not just by your threatening promises, but by your mercy as well.” Castiel hums against Dean’s lips, kissing the edge of his jaw as Dean’s arms tighten around him. The god inhales a deep, shuddering breath, as if trying to grasp some visceral part of himself. 

“I love you, Castiel. You don’t understand how much it... _wrecked_ me to find you as I did, broken and alone….” Dean’s jaw clenches with emotion and Castiel kisses him again, trying to comfort him through the strokes of his fingers through his lover’s hair.  
  
“It’s alright, Dean, I’m alright. You saved me,” Castiel smiles warmly, gazing affectionately into Dean’s eyes. It’s dawning on him just how frightened for Castiel’s life he must’ve been, how much it must’ve scared him to find Castiel in such a condition, and now, all he wants to do is soothe Dean, reassure him that he is alive and everything is okay. Dean is gripping him so tight, as if terrified something may try and pull Castiel from his side. “It’s alright, shhh,” Castiel repeats, and Dean buries his face in Castiel’s hair, the two of them just feeling each other’s closeness for a long moment and taking refuge in it. Time passes and Dean gradually relaxes, though he still holds Castiel close to him, fingers and limbs entangled with his own. Only now does Castiel realize that he’s wearing a silk tunic, the material pleasantly cool and luxuriously soft on his skin. He’s never worn silk before, never felt satin sheets beneath his bare legs, leaving him marveling at the sensation. He also notes that his body is no longer riddled with burning pains and throbbing aches, that his skin has been cleansed of the mud and blood. The nauseating weakness that resulted from the blood loss is completely gone, though he does feel spent of energy. Castiel runs his hands over Dean’s arms and over his shoulders, fingers curling around the back of his neck, searching for any newly acquired scars. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Castiel whispers, needing to be sure that Dean is in perfect health. Eindride was a skilled fighter, and Castiel knows that even though Dean can heal himself, Eindride had the potential to hurt him in a way he couldn’t heal. 

“Yes, beloved. I’m completely healthy. But that’s not what I am concerned about. How are you feeling? I healed you of your wounds and restored your health, but such a dramatic use of my powers on your human body has me worried. Using so much power on you to repair all the damage your body had endured must’ve been quite a shock to your system, I’m anxious to know how you’re feeling and if there are any ill effects.” There’s that concern-laden tone that Castiel brushes off with another kiss to his lover’s soft mouth.  
  
“I feel wonderful, if a little tired. It’s nothing a little sleep won’t fix,” Castiel promises, and Dean sighs in relief, giving him a squeeze and another deeper kiss, indulging in the slide of his tongue over Castiel’s bottom lip. Castiel exhales breathily into the contact, reveling in the sweetness with which the god kisses him.  
  
“Sleep now, love of mine. I will be right here holding you. And I will not leave your side. Never again,” Dean promises, guiding Castiel’s head to rest against his chest. Castiel kisses the dip between Dean’s collarbones, allowing his eyes to flutter closed.  
  
“I love you,” he mumbles against Dean’s heat-radiating skin, already feeling sleep pulling gently at the edge of his mind. Wrapped up in Dean, content with the knowledge that his lover is right here and always will be, Castiel is already falling headlong into unconsciousness. There’s something remarkably comforting on a visceral level, knowing Dean has him, knowing that nothing bad will ever happen to him as long as he’s here.  
  
“I love you too, Cas,” Dean replies, and it’s the last thing Castiel hears before he drops off into a pleasantly dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I really hope you enjoyed! <3 I'd love to hear what you thought, comments and kudos make my day! :) <3 And hey, there might be more fics in this 'verse at some point, who knows! If you have ideas, I'd be excited to hear them!


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